


Decency

by OrionRedde, Shyrstyne



Series: Cometverse [34]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Dissociation, Gen, Homelessness, SONBOY, no takebacksies, our son now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 11:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18827560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionRedde/pseuds/OrionRedde, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shyrstyne/pseuds/Shyrstyne
Summary: Vanitas does not expect to wake up, after the end. But now that he's awake, what the hell is he gonna do?





	Decency

   “What I am… is darkness,” Vanitas intones. It’s all he’s ever known. All he’s ever been. He and Ventus glower at each other, even as bits of Vanitas start fading away, colors dulling and scents fading.

   “Okay,” Ventus growls, and of  _ course  _ he washes his hands of Vanitas. Of course he does.

   “Okay?!” The brat, Sora, speaks up. “How is that okay?! That’s not okay!  _ Vanitas!”  _ Is… is he  _ crying?  _ “Vanitas, you… you don’t believe that. Do you?”

   There’s a tug in Vanitas’ chest, a brief flash of something not his own.

_    Forgiveness. Bitterness. Hope. Regret.  _

   And something cold in Vanitas’ heart  _ breaks _ , and he  _ doesn’t want to go.  _ He feels his face crumple, even as bits of him fade away. This… he doesn’t want this, but...

   “It’s how it’s supposed to be,” he whispers, and Sora lunges, reaching out as if to grab him, but Vanitas…

   Vanitas  _ f a d e s  a w a y. . . _

   Sora bursts into tears.

 

   Vanitas wakes up.

   How does he wake up?

   Why does he wake up?

_    Where  _ does he wake up?

   Vanitas blinks, face uncovered. The sky is bright blue and filled with fluffy clouds. He lifts his hand to block the sunshine, and is faced with bare flesh. That’s...new. New things usually aren’t good. 

   He needs to sit up.

   Vanitas winces as his body screams at him, aching and hurting down to his  _ bones  _ as he slowly, torturously sits up. First thing he notices is that his armor’s  _ gone.  _ Completely gone. Instead, he’s wearing regular clothes.

   People clothes.

   He picks over them, feeling black fabric and gold buttons. 

   The wind blows, and he looks up.

   In the distance, he sees buildings.

   Lights.

   People.

   Vanitas gets up, ignoring the pain (he’s used to it), and sets off, heavy boots tromping in the dusty earth. His belly growls at him. He takes note of it and subsequently ignores it. He needs to know where he is. Then he can figure out what to do.

 

\---

 

   He never figures out what to do.

   He’s on his third-

   He’s on his fifth-

   He’s on his twelfth world.

   He’s absolutely  _ ravenous _ , and food is hard to get when you don’t want to be seen. He’s mostly been surviving on what he can scavenge, but he knows he’s not getting enough. 

   It’s fine.

   He doesn’t care.

   Vanitas realizes he’s sitting in an alley somewhere. Dusty brick, cold and unforgiving at his back. The sky is orange and red and peach. He’s hungry. He’s cold, despite the coat he nicked from somebody a few worlds back. He’s tired. He doesn't even have the unversed to keep him company any more.

   What is his purpose? Why is he here? He feels something, several somethings, calling to his heart, quiet but insistent. He ignores them. He doesn’t need them. He’s fine.

_    Clink _

   Vanitas looks up. 

   A simple thermos is sitting on a crate next to him. There’s a hand, covered in branching red scars, holding it. He follows the arm up to a face. Three scars slash diagonally across their right cheek. A thick braid loops over their shoulder. They quirk the side of their mouth at him.

   “So you’re alive,” they drawl. “You’ve been here for a while, haven’t you?” He wouldn’t know. “Here.” They thunk the thermos against the crate again. “I brought you some soup. Eat something, yeah?”

   They turn and walk away before he can respond. Vanitas looks at the thermos. He wants to be angry. He wants to hate them. He doesn’t want their pity! He doesn’t need their help!

   But his belly growls. He is hungry. He is tired. He is cold.

   Vanitas takes the thermos, unscrewing the top and taking a cautious sniff.

   Vegetables. Meat. Spice.

   He’s downed half of it before he even realizes what he’s doing. It settles heavily in his belly, warming him from the inside out. He savors the rest of the stew, memorizing tastes and smells he’s never tasted nor smelt before.

   It’s good.

   He licks his lips, staring down into the empty thermos.

   He… should probably return this. He considers just leaving it, but eventually the sheer weight of having no where to go and nothing to accomplish pushes him to pick it up. Just another task to complete, anything to keep himself going. 

   Vanitas shakily stands up (weakweakweakweak he’s always been so  _ weak _ ) and shuffles out of the alley, breathing in the night air.  The tram trundles by. Street lamps flicker over cobblestone streets.

   Where is he?

   Thermos.

   Vanitas grips it tightly, cautiously creeping down the street. He wanders for a while, keeping to shadows and back alleys. He doesn’t know how to find this person, but some part of him hopes he does.

   “Y’all have a good night!”

   Vanitas whips his head around. That’s them! A few men leave a bar a few yards away from him. Above the door is a simple wooden sign.  _ The Falling Star  _ is carefully painted on the rough surface. He prowls forward, peeking inside.

   There’s nobody in the bar. But the lights are still on, and it says it’s open.

   What does he have to lose?

   Vanitas tightens his grip on the thermos and opens the door, stepping into the warm building. The pub is warmly lit, with a fireplace off to one side. The booths that line the walls of the room are made of dark wood and furnished with green cushioning. In the middle of the room is a pool table, with cues in a rack against one wall. Opposite the front door is the bar itself. The bartender looks up.

   It’s the person who gave Vanitas the thermos.

   “Good to see you alive,” they tell him, outright smiling at him. “Been a couple days. Did you like the stew?”

   Days?

   “...yes,” he croaks, cautiously walking forward. “I’m… here to give back the thermos.”

   “Cool, just set it on the counter,” the bartender says as they rummage with something behind the bar. Vanitas sets the thermos on the counter - polished wood - with a soft  _ thunk. _ He stands there, awkwardly. He doesn’t know what to do, now, objective complete.

   “Here.”

   A plate of food he doesn’t recognize (unsurprising -- he’s lived off of magic, vendors, and whatever he can steal for as long as he can remember) is set in front of him. It looks like some sort of meat, drizzled with sauce, with a side of veggies and what he hopes are mashed potatoes. A glass of a cold, brown liquid is set next to the plate.

   “Saved you a plate,” the bartender informs him. “Kinda hoped you’d swing by eventually. Go ahead and eat. I’m Comet, by the way. They/them.”

   “...Vanitas,” he rasps, sitting on one of the bar stools. “...what is this?”

   Comet pauses. Vanitas tenses.

   “...it’s chicken marsala,” Comet tells him, voice even. “With mashed potatoes and grilled zucchini.”

   “Okay.” He doesn’t know what that is.

   “It’s good,” Comet assures him casually as they clean a few cups. 

   He picks up the fork, cutting off a piece of the chicken and eating it.

   It is, indeed, good.

   He cleans the plate and drinks the liquid (tea, he thinks, tasting very subtle herbs underneath sweetness). He’s still hungry, but less so.

   “You got a place to stay the night?” Comet asks him, avoiding eye contact. Vanitas tenses, unsure of what they want. Comet seems to notice.

   “It’s okay if you’d rather not say,” they tell him. “I just have a spare cot in my store room. There’s a door to the back alley, if you need to leave early in the morning. I’m just offering.”

   Vanitas thinks about it.

   Food.

   Somewhere warm to sleep.

   He’s so tired.

   “...sure,” he accepts. Why not. He hasn’t got anywhere else to be.

   Comet beams at him, and Vanitas feels the broken pieces of his heart warm slightly. The feeling is so entirely foreign he can’t even name it.

 

   It goes like this.

   Vanitas will spend nights at Comet’s bar, in the cot. He will leave before Comet wakes up (which is pretty late, considering their bar hours) to explore the world he’s found himself in with much more aware eyes. He keeps his hair hidden behind a bandana he’d stolen a long time ago. He doesn’t want to take any chances with being mistaken for Sora. That kid gets around.

   He’s in a world called Twilight Town.

   It’s famous for sea salt ice cream, the clocktower, and the abandoned mansion.

   He recognizes nobody, and nobody recognizes him. He’s fine with that.

   Close to the evenings he’ll start orbiting back to Comet’s place. There’s always a plate of food waiting for him. He will hide in one of the corner booths and stay quiet, thinking. Guests don’t bother him, and most of the regulars ignore him. Comet will keep attention off of him, too. They share a dinner with him (he still won’t go upstairs into their home) and he hides in the back room with the cot.

   Repeat.

   But now he’s trying to figure out  _ why.  _

   Why is Comet doing this?

   Feeding him, housing him, helping him?

   He just… can’t figure it out.

   “Why?” he asks them one day, fists clenching in his freshly washed cargo pants. Comet pauses in restocking their bar.

   “Why what?” they ask. They look genuinely confused.

   “Why are you helping me?” he asks, feeling old anger stir in his heart. “Why are you feeding me? Giving me a cot, washing my clothes, putting up with me? Are you pitying me?! Being self-righteous because you-”

   “Alright, I’m going to stop you right there,” Comet snaps. Vanitas freezes. They sound genuinely angry. “One. I do  _ not  _ pity you. Believe it or not, I’ve been where you are. You’re hungry. You’re cold. You’re tired. You don’t know why the fuck you should care about other people, nevermind why you should care about yourself. No purpose. No reason. No life.” Comet leans forward. Vanitas tastes ozone at the back of his tongue. “This isn’t about being _ nice _ , Vanitas. It isn’t about being righteous, or just, or being a fucking goody two-shoes. It’s about being a  _ decent fucking person.  _ You were sitting in a fucking alley, shivering, and thinner than a twig. I had the power to change that. I had the power to  _ help.  _ So I did. Because it was the _ decent thing to do _ .” They lean back, looking tired and sad. “You look like you’ve been dealt a hard hand in life. I feel that. I’ve been there, or close as. That’s it.” They go back to restocking their bar, dropping the conversation.

   Vanitas can only sit there, turning their words over in his head.

   Decency.

   Helping not because it made them feel better, or to make themselves look good, or to win favors, but because it was the right thing to do. The  _ decent _ thing to do.

   Huh.

   “...sorry,” Vanitas mumbles, the word unfamiliar on his tongue. He thinks that’s what a normal person would do here. He’s sort of making it up as he goes now. Comet sighs through their nose.

   “I forgive you,” they say, looking back up at him. “I know it isn’t easy to accept help. Feeling weak is the worst.”

   Vanitas huffs, feeling his lips twitch. Well, he guesses he’ll stay. But he  _ refuses  _ to be a burden.

   “Do you… need help?” he offers. Comet smiles at him, and he feels like he’s doing something  _ right. _

**Author's Note:**

> Orion and Shyrstyne: SONBOY! SONBOY! SON BOY SON BOY SON BOY SON BOY!!!
> 
> Vanitas is our son now and we're gonna give him the love and home he dESERVES.


End file.
